I have recently been accused of being “bitter.” This accusation has been at the heart of various criticisms of recent blog posts I have written. Those blog posts include a recent rant about first dates, and the hilariously absurd insecurities that ritual inspires. I also wrote an obnoxious review of the new “Harry Potter” movie, which I haven’t seen, and won’t see, because I know man-witch will use pig Latin to defeat Dark Casper. It is not like Harry Potter is some obscure cultural underdog. If I offended you by roasting your favorite fictional childhood hero/billion dollar empire, then, you know, don’t be such a dainty teacake.
I also won’t apologize for mocking first dates and, to be fair, my own anxieties. I also won’t apologize for making fun of tapas. If I was sitting on the Iron Throne of New York City Dating, I would decree that all first dates occur at my new restaurant “Tongs,” where all portions are family-sized and the only utensils are tongs. Now, that is a first date where two people will really find out about one another. Tapas would then be banned. Keep reading »
I think “tapas” is actually Spanish for “Hey, these people will spend a lot of money to eat small portions of food off of tiny plates.” The whole idea of “tapas” was probably invented in the ’70s as a way to fleece English-speaking tourists who found appetizers sold as entrees charming and rustic. I hate going to tapas places on first dates. Because a dinner date is still dinner. I’m hungry. I have to order five or six tapas to make a meal and then the plates crowd the table and I look like a pig because those there are only two of those ridiculously tiny sausages and I ate them. But it’s not like I don’t raise my eyebrows and nod at the tiny sausages, which is the universal sign for “have a tiny sausage.” I am generous. I offer food from my plate to those with whom I am breaking proverbial bread. There is nothing stopping a certain dinner companion from also ordering five or six tapas, including the tiny sausage tapas, instead of just having what looks like a sprig of the Jolly Green Giant’s pubic hair.
Damn tapas. Damn tiny sausages. Damn social awkwardness. First dates are the worst. But who am I kidding? I’m not going on any first dates. Keep reading »
Haven’t I written about why men cheat before? Can’t I write about anal sex? Again? For the third or fourth time in my career as a hack? If it weren’t for the perpetually hot topic of “why men cheat,” the entire gender-industrial complex would collapse.
Men cheat because people are jerks. Selfishness is the default setting of the human race. You know how there are people out there who say that they believe, deep down, everyone is good? I am not one of those folks. Keep reading »
Unless you own a private plane with a bed in the cabin, having sex in an airplane has got to be the lamest sexual fantasy ever. Not to mention corny. And tacky. If you want to do it in public, do it in a park or an alley like decent people. I find its apparent popularity confounding. There are websites dedicated to tales of airborne debauchery, which all read like the ridiculous letters sections of soft-core porn magazines, where some unemployed former Blockbuster manager just can’t believe he had a threesome with two 19-year-old Icelandic snowboarders hitchhiking through Alabama. This is to say, I have never believed any story anyone has ever told me about putting the “cruise” in “cruising altitude.” At least, I’ve never believed any story that makes it sound hot, or desirable, or like anything that doesn’t make me want to pour myself a Lysol bath. Keep reading »
Here’s a 110 percent true fact: the guy you’re dating has definitely imagined having a threesome with you and the waitress from last night, his hot co-worker, or your best friend. Yuck, amiriiiiight?
While you’re squirming over how grossoholic men are, telling yourself “My boyfriend would NEVER want to have a threesome between me and my best friend Megs,” allow me to inform you that women are far kinkier, nastier, and sexually adventuresome than the testicle enabled. More on THAT, later. Keep reading »
I have never really enjoyed weddings. I usually think of weddings as funerals with dancing. I used to think weddings had better food, but then I went to a funeral that had the most divine smoked salmon platter. I once explained to a girlfriend that weddings were the last meals served to death row inmates. That once upon a time, women were nothing more than property and marriages were contractual agreements between two wealthy landowners. The wedding itself was a way of softening this truth to the bride. In exchange for a life of servitude, she’d get a big fancy wedding where she’d be treated like a princess for a day. One last hurrah before the inevitable. If I were on death row — probably because I bore an uncanny resemblance to a political prisoner who was the love of a woman I didn’t deserve and then switched places with him so he could be with her and I could kneel before the guillotine — you can bet I’d order a huge ice cream sundae served in a mop bucket. Keep reading »